A Toymaker takes a stand (Mass Effect 3Harry Potter)
by DaemonWelsh
Summary: A toymaker who has lived since world war one takes a stand, and steps forth to combat the great threat to the galaxy.


Thomas Anthony Carver ran a specialty store on the streets of Banchory. It was a quaint little shop, with a few secrets. The first was the open secret, the front door led out to muggle London. The second was that the shop was not at all in London, and were it in any way dangerous, would have exposed many hidden things to a populace that largely did not believe in such fairy tales.

The shop was three stories tall, with a basement section that had turned into a workshop after years of work. The scent of resin, pine, the scattering of wood shavings spread across the floor, and the figures set up in various stages of construction scattered across the room spoke of the ancient mans passion. Toys and toys and toys galore, big ones, small ones, action figures, barbie dolls, mars putty, miniature devils snare, unicorns, bugs that crawled, wooden eyes that spun, playing cards that danced, bottled fairies, and a puppet that looked remarkably alike to Pinocchio.

On the ground level of the store stood the non-magical merchandise. A mix of old fashioned and new, from metal cast Hot Wheels, to remote control aircraft, and everything in between. Though there was the occasional magical item, this section of the store was largely devoid of magecraft.

The first level held the magical shop, and all its obvious influences, though the layer of dust shown demonstrated this was not the favored portion of the building. How could it have been, with the shop having stood well over seven hundred years, passing through Old Man Thomas's line until it reached him a mere two hundred years prior. With the stagnant wizarding world having no imagination, nor drive, what was the point in his many innovations? So this part of the shop was all but abandoned.

The Second level of the shop held a massive laboratory, with half done rune carvings, various animal hides, and the occasional spinning instrument. A tea kettle spun in circles, upside down of course, with purple smoking dancing from it in the corner. A doll Stood, danced for half a second in jolting, erratic motions, and dropped down again, over and over. This entire floor held that which was uncomplete, prototyped, or that which was awaiting repair.

The final floor held a small apartment, somewhat old fashioned, though the holoscreen decorating the wall proved that Old Man Thomas was not as set in his habits as many others who could have claimed similar ages. Yet there were still obvious hailing to the past, a wood stove heated the room, cast iron pots and pans hung from hand crafted wooden racks, a chicken in a cage clucked softly next to the bed which was set atop painstakingly crafted wooden drawers, and light fixtures with faerie lights danced apart from any tether.

Old Man Thomas was sitting down in the muggle portion of the store at the moment, carving away at a small figurine. It was entirely made of wood, but there were small details that shed light on what it would be when finished. A flowing black robe sat next to it, with crimson and gold trim. A rumpled hat, worn with age sat over the robe, and a glimmering silver sword with the smallest of ruby flakes set into the handle, of such craftsmanship that could never be achieved with the modern day machine. A wooden shaving, painstakingly crafted into a wand in miniature scale sat next to the sword.

Even as he worked, a soft bell chimed in the store, though Old Man Thomas never glanced towards the door that was the cause of such ringing. His mind, even as he worked, had danced among the many years he had lived, towards some of his favorite events.

Thomas was never a powerful wizard, never had attended Hogwarts, and had been home schooled throughout his youth. Just barely too young to go to war with his kinsmen, he was the last of his line after the Great War. Still, these were the happiest of times, and the saddest of times for him. The times which earned him the title of Runecarver, of Master Enchanter, and the one he held dear to his heart, Toymaker.

His favorite memory, and where his mind stood while he crafted the little toy into something far more than what it had been, was of a cupboard he had crafted, to serve as a sort of animation device that ultimately proved to far from his goal of imitating life, and had instead imbued a portion of the users soul into the figure it animated. Not in any dark sense of course, but like a blacksmith working a blade, the keyholder left a part of themselves in whatever toy had been placed inside.

He had given it to a young girl, who had many years later, sent him a series of books she had written about indians, cowboys, and this little cupboard he had crafted. The thought made him smile, though his attention was drawn from his recollections as his eyes danced towards the customer within his store.

Setting aside the carved figure, he took the man's sight in, his glasses shedding any illusions the man may have had to conceal himself, though it seemed there were none.

The man was old, not nearly as ancient as Old man Thomas, but time had aged him. A scar stretched from the bottom of his chin, crossing his eye to the top of his brow. His eyes were intense, a hazel color that seemed to almost glow. His hair was still clean cut, yet colored in salt and pepper, wiry, with a small hint of the toffee color it had once been. A military outfit was his, though the clothes were distinctly civilian.

The customer studied the items in the shop, his eyes taking in each handcrafted item, as Thomas had not bought any of his stock from any supplier, crafting each and every toy by hand, with furnace, or with minor enchantment. Eventually his attention settled upon a craft, angular like a predatory bird. It was something that Thomas had crafted from a dream. It would fly through the night sky, burning away crafts built by necromancy of the vilest orders, led by a man who shielded the world like a shepherd defending his flock. The stars would burn in the background, yet the whole sky was not touched by the putrid embers that spread from the necromantic fire.

The ship was a masterful work of art, every detail on the interior perfect, down to the dragonhide leather seat where the pilot would stand, no bigger than a half grain of rice. Truly, the fine details were astonishing, something that could not be seen by his customer as he looked at the exterior of the vessel.

Thomas spoke, his voice like a well oiled polishing cloth set against mahogany, with undertones of velvet and the barest hint of coal. "That is one of my finest creations, and though it may not seem it from the outside, is so exquisitely detailed that even I am scarce able to believe it came from own two hands. But it seems you are here for another purpose, not to study my craft, but a more personal interest in the craftsman." This observation was wrought as the strange man turned towards Thomas as he spoke. A wry smile graced the man's lips, and the Toymaker brought weathered, ancient hands, hands that had seen centuries of varnish and stain, to his chest, one a fist which sat on his ribs, the other extending forward, fingers splayed as though a bright ruby red apple was being offered to a young maiden.

The Man, through the eyes of our Runecrafter, stood with an air to him. Commanding a presence not seen since the toy Thomas was crafting earlier had been a living, breathing, fighting person. His voice was akin to a rumbling cat, a soft purr that could easily turn to a harsh roar. "You would be half right there, though the craftsmen interest me just as much as his craft. You must be Old Man Thomas then? Your name has been bandied about with some renown as the designer for the Geneva-class cruisers."  
Thomas waved away the question, "Of course, that was an old project of mine that helped keep me busy. But I dont think youre here for ship designs, you are here for something else, General Williams"

The now named stranger gave a subtle, nearly imperceptible shake, as his name was outed, somewhat surprised the craftsmen recognized him. Nevertheless, his smile grew broader, and a with a belly full of laughter and tears streaming down his face, he clutched at his chest. Slowly getting a hold of himself, the laughter died down, and he was able to speak once more. "You would recognize me Old man, though the last time I was here my mother was buying me a toy soldier, dressed in N7 armor before there even was an N7 Program. Somehow you knew, which is part of the reason i'm here now." At this his jovial tone took a far more sombre note. "You must know something of the state of the universe now. Even if you've never ventured far. For a man of your talents, is there something, anything you could do to help? The commander of this finely crafted ship is discredited, much like myself." A gesture to the vessel on the shelf to indicate what he was speaking on. "There are very few who dare to consider the possibility that these Reapers are a credible threat. You must have seen something in your long years."

The old man sighed, and turned back towards his workbench. "You ask something of a simple toymaker, you ask for more than what I am. I gave my help, what more do you want?" A glance back at the General, then back to the figure on the table.

"Anything, insight, alone could help lives."

"Come back tomorrow. We are closing for the day." The old man's face was ashen, a single drop of salt and water graced the bench below, tarnishing the runes that covered the surface.

The old General nodded, set down a paper card, propped up by the toy craft, the letters clearly visible, Normandy. He turned, and left the store, his shoes making a sharp click as he stepped back onto the concrete walkways outside.

Thomas set down his glasses, lenses so thick they could have been used as hockey pucks, rubbing the tears from his eyes. His many years seemed to catch up with him almost all at once, his thoughts falling to then past, the bombs as they dropped so close to where he sheltered, the voices he had long since forgotten.

His sleep later that night was troubled.

The next day had the shop securely packed away within a small carry bag, the entire building having been set inside it. The old man walked amongst the Londoners, towards the sea where his Normandy awaited him. A cane in his hand, his white beard, odd glasses, and overalls stuffed with tools, rune carving, an assortment of knives for whitling, a rasp, fourteen different swiss army knives, and a veritable army of carved and decorated toothpicks, he was bound to draw stares. Yet even then, nobody seemed to notice him, almost as though their eyes were drawn to slide away.

Of course, as Murphy is said to have a way with words, they would soon have something else to look on.

Presently he arrived at the Normandy. It was a beautiful vessel, well designed, and a perfect replica of the one he crafted in his own hands less than a hundred years prior. Today he would be boarding it. He waited, patiently at the airock, casually dismissing an assortment of magicks which prevented many from seeing him.

It was less than a minute later that somebody came from inside the ship to greet him, or arrest hm. One way or another their actions were interrupted by a bright red beam that seemed to carve from one edge of the sky to another, and there were more important things to the soldier than some crazy eccentric old man.

A few steps had him inside the ship, and a few minutes had the ship in atmo as it carried two very precious packages. One a hero, who had saved the galaxy twice. The other, a human treasure, priceless.

It was time for Thomas to make a difference, rather than stand on the sidelines as he had for the past two hundred years.


End file.
